Caped Crusader
by Comp Ninja
Summary: A 13 part miniseries. This new Batman mythos reveals the humble beginnings of the Dark Knight and how his destiny intertwined with those of his greatest enemies. It will include updated origin stories for Rā's al Ghūl, the Scarecrow and the Joker.
1. Part 1

Disclaimer: I do not own DC Comics or its characters.

Caped Crusader  
That Terrible Night

Horror stories often began with a monster. This horror story began with a city. Where the Miskatonic River and the Atlantic Ocean met, resided Gotham, the ancestral home of the Miagani tribe now occupied by descendants of the European settlers who drove them to extinction.

Gotham had plenty of good horror stories and not just supernatural ones like the undead monster that lived in Slaughter Swamp. Gotham had horror stories about living breathing humans like Victor Zsasz, a serial killer who carved each of his murders as a tally mark on his own flesh.

In this dark microcosm of modern civilization, there lived a royal dynasty of sorts, the Waynes, one of the few families in Gotham whose fortune came from honest means. Its king and queen, Thomas and Martha Wayne, fought tirelessly against the social decay of their beloved city.

This dynasty had a crown prince. A chubby little cherub any grandparent would have loved, Bruce Wayne, age 6½, had a beautiful future ahead of him. One day, he'd inherit the family business. One day, he'd have a net worth of seven billion dollars. One day, women whose names every bachelor on the planet knew by heart would vie for his romantic attention.

One day, his name would add to the Wayne legacy. Today, he had only one name on his mind. _Zorro._ Alfred had helped (a little) in the completion of his costume. Tomorrow, young Bruce would go trick-or-treating for the first time. To celebrate, his parents would take him to the Monarch Theater. Bruce would get to see his favorite costumed crusader on the big screen. Better yet, he would get to wear the costume.

When the other doctors looked the other way as a young man lied dying, his father refused to abandon his oath. He didn't care who belonged to what family. He worked in the business of saving lives. The patient's father pulled a few strings with management to arrange an advance private screening of _The Mark of Zorro_, a remake of the 1940 film.

Back before anyone had laid the foundation for their stately mansion at 1007 Mountain Drive, Old Gotham had provided homes to the richest families in Gotham. When the Great Depression struck, anyone with their wealth intact moved to Bristol Township just 15 minutes north of here.

Unlike the East End, Old Gotham had enough awe-inspiring nostalgia and alluring Gothic architecture to hide its growing colony of homeless people. The wealthy elite did what they could, mostly out of guilt and usually by throwing money at the problem. Only a rare few like the Waynes truly cared about these people. Still, on a night like this, they would have preferred to have no reminders of their failure to improve their situation.

Thinking back, it felt as though it all happened in another lifetime. Like another boy had lived that life. Bruce barely remembered that sort of happiness. He had something back then he would not have for the rest of his life. _Innocence._

At exactly thirteen minutes to eleven o'clock on Devil's Night, that innocence ended. Bruce Wayne had enjoyed the show. The villains had scared him, but, in the end, he knew that the hero would swoop in and save the day. The easy confidence provided by the cinematic morality tale only heightened the horror of what happened next.

Bruce practiced with his plastic sword as his parents chose an unfortunate shortcut through a dark alley. With their trusty chauffeur waylaid by illness, they needed to pass through a small neighborhood that bridged the gap between Old Gotham and the East End.

As expected, hoodlums ran the streets tonight. Egging houses and soaping windows. _Nothing too extreme_, his parents must have thought. No one could blame his parents for thinking that or, at least, wanting to think that. Like many Gothamites, the Waynes lived in a state of willful ignorance when it came to their city's rampant street crime.

Terrifying Bruce out of his wits, a ferocious gang circled them like hyenas. One of the revelers, a gangly boy dressed like a scarecrow, attempted to snatch his father's wallet. His father broke his arm before his hand had withdrawn. The haze of perpetual denial had at last lifted.

A black belt in karate, his father could hold his own against a band of ruffians. The leader, dressed as a skeleton, pulled a gun on him. "Big mistake, Pops." The scarecrow punched him in the gut with his good arm as soon as he realized he couldn't hurt him.

Throwing his hands in the air, his father let the scarecrow pick his wallet off the ground. The skeleton spoke. "We own the streets, rich man, not you. If we want your wallet, you give us your wallet." The skeleton looked at the neck of Bruce's mother. "If we want that pearl necklace . . ."

The skeleton trailed off as he moved in to take the treasure from around her neck. Bruce's father saw the opportunity. He attempted to disarm the leader. Perhaps, his father thought he could overpower him and take the gun. Sadly enough, brute force could only accomplish so much.

Alone, his father might have disarmed the skeleton with ease. But he loved his wife and his son and feared for their safety. He stopped to think when he should have relied solely on his training. Quite simply, his father had folded under the psychological rigors of this death-or-life situation.

In the struggle, the skeleton managed to slip away. The moment he got free from his father's grasp, he fired a single shot from his pistol. A roar of thunder and a flash of lightning exploded from the gun as the bullet smashed its way through his father's chest. His mother's scream filled the air until the skeleton fired again.

The scarecrow pulled off his mask as the blood of Bruce's mother sprayed onto it. A look of absolute terror washed over his long bird-like face. "Johnny, put your mask back on." Though visibly frightened by his words, the scarecrow refused to do what the skeleton told him to.

Bruce, as if triggered by some demonic rage, rushed at the scarecrow. He had the gun nestled on his forehead before he knew it. The skeleton laughed. "You think a fake sword can beat a real gun, Zorro." He cocked the hammer. In that moment, the scarecrow lunged for the gun. A shot rang out and missed Bruce's head by the width of a hair.

The struggle distracted them. The others had run off already. Bruce Wayne took the opportunity as his father did. The skeleton screamed as Bruce gouged out his left eye. In a hurry, the skeleton shot Bruce in the stomach. The scarecrow stayed behind. "He said . . . he didn't even keep the gun loaded. He said he only used it to scare people."

Bruce spat his own blood into the scarecrow's exposed face. _They looked pretty scared to me._ Terror did not excuse murder. As Bruce Wayne lied in a pool of his own blood, he wondered how these people could act like this. Even in his anger, he could not ignore the fact that the scarecrow only acted out of fear. What kind of fear could turn someone into an accessory to two murders?

Deep down, he knew the horrible truth. These creatures ruled the night. Their disguises lifted them above the law. Those not with them could not stand against them. His parents had crossed into their territory. Their leader saw fit to mete up violent punishment for their trespasses.


	2. Part 2

Disclaimer: I do not own DC Comics or its characters.

Caped Crusader  
Stages of Grief

Contrary to popular belief, Thomas and Martha Wayne did not die on Park Row that night. They died an hour later at Gotham General Hospital, fighting for their lives. The gunshot wounds, both through the chest, had not killed them outright. Imagining what they went through in their final hour would haunt Bruce for all time.

For a while, Bruce Wayne had convinced himself that they might survive after all. His mother once read an article about a man who survived having the full length of a railroad spike driven between his eyes. His parents would need a miracle of that sort. They both had a lot of spirit but only so much blood.

Rushed into surgery for his injury, he promised anyone who would listen that if his parents lived, when he grew up, he would make a huge donation to Gotham General in the sum of one billion dollars. In truth, he would have given them all the money in the world to see his parents live.

When Doctor Roland West came in with the news, Bruce Wayne filled with the same demonic rage that took him in the place Gothamites would forever call Crime Alley. Bruce relied on this place of light to undo the damage done in a place of darkness. These overpaid fatheads had let his parents die. A crash rang out as his feet gave out from under him. Dr. West had not yet told him about the possible nerve damage.

An orderly restrained Bruce Wayne as he screamed like a wild animal. The orderly recoiled as Bruce's teeth found his flesh. As the medical staff strapped him in place, he suddenly stopped fighting. He began to cry. _Denial. Bargaining. Anger. Depression. Acceptance._ Psychologists called them the five stages of grief.

An ordinary person went through the stages in a fairly linear fashion. But nothing on Earth could make Bruce Wayne an ordinary person now. The night had opened his eyes forever to the evils of Gotham. The stages of his grief would move in circles, forever orbiting the horrible truth he had witnessed that night.

Some days, he would convince himself that they never died like he could call them on the phone at some winter home in Florida. On even rarer days, he would make peace (however temporary) with their deaths. Those days did not happen often. Most days, he alternated between anger and depression.

The worst part came from the police. Lieutenant James Gordon forced him to relive every detail of the evening. The police psychologist, Leslie Thompkins, held Bruce's hand during the questioning. Pretty soon, Bruce broke down in tears. Apologetic, the lieutenant and the police psychologist left the room.

Strapped down to his hospital bed, Bruce said a tearful prayer. He swore to God that even if He could allow such evil in Gotham, Bruce Wayne would not. He would take his revenge by robbing evil-doers of their ability to strike fear into the hearts of the innocent. _What happened to me would never happen again._

A clap of thunder rang out in the October night. As if God took offense at his hubris. How could a mere mortal hope to rid an entire city of evil? He could not walk let alone complete a task no society on Earth had accomplished at any point in human history? Indeed, Bruce Wayne had no idea how he would do it but he knew one thing for certain. He would either find a way or die trying.

As he nodded off into an uneasy slumber, he looked up at the ceiling. Someone had put up Halloween decorations. He saw the familiar shapes of a jack-o'-lantern and a black cat. His gaze lingered on the shape of the bat. Feelings of recognition came over him like brief glimpses of the future intruding on the present.


	3. Part 3

Disclaimer: I do not own DC Comics or its characters.

Caped Crusader  
Obligations

That terrible night replayed in Bruce Wayne's mind as he attacked his opponent. The top brass at Gotham General Hospital said he would never walk again. _What the hell did they know?_ The day he recovered his ability to walk, he started on the first leg of his journey. His father had known a tenth-degree black belt that could teach him what he needed to know. Combined with his strict regiment of diet and exercise, he would turn his body into a deadly weapon.

Bruce shivered at these alien thoughts racing through his head. He imagined that night, tearing out spines and wearing them as belts. He envisioned killing spree endings; each more divorced from reality than the one that preceded it. He wanted revenge badly. He wanted to tear out their throats and drink their blood.

The memory of how his parents died hit Bruce like a pail of cold water. Gunned down by street demons only to die an hour later in excruciating pain, Bruce realized he did not want to end up like that, a murderer.

In his latter years studying criminology at Miskatonic University, he would hear theories as to what created a violent criminal. He knew the root of what gave birth to a violent criminal. They did what they did because they had no fear, only despair. Bruce had seen it in their eyes. They did not own the streets so much as the streets owned them.

Currently ten years old, Bruce Wayne still practiced martial arts. His father had begun his training as soon as he started walking. "A great exercise," he called it. "A way to release the tension of daily life." But even a competent fighter could not always face down a punk with a gun.

Alfred Pennyworth watched from the stands. The referee had ruled in favor of Bruce's opponent. "Illegal move." Bruce didn't even remember it. Four years had passed. He still blacked out whenever the memories rushed in. Post-traumatic stress did not justify misconduct. The referee had no choice but to disqualify him.

Bruce Wayne's master, the venerable Sensei Ken Watanabe, had trained his father, Thomas Wayne, for a time. Though not as good a fighter as Bruce, Thomas never got disqualified. Not once. He always fought clean and, most importantly, with respect towards his opponent.

Bruce could practically smell this lecture coming. "Bruce, you do not think of yourself as a child and I will not speak to you as one." He stood up from his seat and put his arms on Bruce's shoulders. "You have the very odd distinction of learning the most and the least from me."

Bruce and his sensei walked out of the stadium as the tournament continued. Once again, the championship title eluded Bruce due to his chronic disqualifications. "In three years, you have mastered every technique I taught you. You even speak fluent Japanese. All these prospects and you have wasted them."

Bruce rolled his eyes. _Here we go. _

"You have made no effort to learn of my philosophy, my true legacy." The sensei tried so hard to reach Bruce but he just did not understand his obligations. He came from a different world. "You want to avenge your parents' deaths." The sensei no longer carried on the façade of a venerable old man. He came close to pleading with young Bruce. "Please, for the love of your parents and everything they stood for; leave this journey into madness behind."

Bruce began to speak but the sensei stopped him. "Have I ever told you the story of a woman who brought her dead baby to the Buddha?" The sensei knew that he had not. "She asked him to resurrect her baby. The Buddha agreed if she could find one person in her village whose life Death had not touched. Can you guess what happened, Bruce?"

Bruce shook his head in dismissal. Now he recognized this story. _Benefit of a classical education._ "I don't wish to resurrect them. I made a promise to rid Gotham of the evil that took their lives. I must honor that oath."

The sensei seized Bruce by the throat. "Don't lecture to me about honor, young Bruce. Death visits us all. No one can stop that. Not you. Not me. No one! What makes you so special you must forsake all happiness? Your parents will receive no honor by you turning your life into a monument to their deaths."

The sensei dropped Bruce onto the ground. "Let it go while you still can." The sensei paused a moment as if unsure of what he had left to say. "That or you learn from someone else. I have no desire in training a slave to the _samsara_." Bruce walked away as he joined up with Alfred.

On the day Bruce Wayne finally exorcised his demons, he would return to his sensei's dojo in Okinawa. Only then would Bruce have the peace of mind to seek enlightenment. Until then, Bruce Wayne had other business to attend to. He could find other teachers who understood his obligations.


	4. Part 4

Disclaimer: I do not own DC Comics or its characters.

Caped Crusader  
Looking For Trouble

Sensei Ken Watanabe's refusal to train a future vigilante did not prove the exception to the rule. His Krav Maga teacher in Israel had done the same thing. He taught him, grew disgusted with him, and stopped training him. He could have a dozen teachers. It would happen a dozen times.

Haim Levine's refusal shocked Bruce more than Ken's. Haim had watched his parents murdered by an S.S. officer during the Holocaust. If anyone should understand his mission, he should have. Nonetheless, his training had not proved worthless. Bruce now knew how to fight in worst-case scenarios without jeopardizing innocent lives.

Bruce Wayne needed to seek out folks who understood places like Gotham, people who understood the kind of determination that could literally will limbs out of atrophy. Such a man (or woman) could finish his training.

Within the martial arts subculture, he heard rumors about a man condemned for "training a league of shadowy characters." He swore that he would train any student who showed promise, no questions asked. The infamous Henri Ducard had trained under him. Bruce had no other details besides a name. _Rā's al Ghūl._

The year spent tracking him down gave Bruce a chance to hone his deductive skills. A vigilante could not hope for trouble always finding him. The skills of a detective would help him look for trouble. Tracking down a man expert in the art of evasion taught Bruce a valuable lesson in crime-fighting. Even the most careful quarry left a trail, tiny specks of evidence that betrayed their presence.

He also spent the year gaining a skill normal for a child about that age, the ability to operate a motor vehicle. His ambitions of vigilantism would require rapid movement to and from crisis centers. Bruce had his heart set on a motorcycle but an unarmored mode of transportation, even a fast one, might prove lethal on the streets of Gotham. On the other hand, a tank had the opposite problem.

Bruce Wayne, now fourteen, arrived at his destination with Alfred carrying his luggage. According to months of chasing leads and gathering evidence, he had found his hideout. Here in this monastery in the jungles of Southern Mindanao, he would meet a man who stopped counting his age after he turned 100.

Expecting to find an old geezer flanked by out-of-shape monks, the sight of black-clad soldiers guarding a well-dressed Arab in his late forties shocked him. The man looked like a James Bond villain with matching ninjas. "Stand down," he said in perfect Mandarin. "I believe these intruders can justify their behavior."

Bruce caught sight of a radiant girl his age giggling from behind the doors to the monastery. Rā's al Ghūl tilted Bruce's chin upward. "Speak quickly and to the point. My associates grow restless for practice."

Bruce pushed his hand aside and stanced off. If these guys wanted practice, he would give them practice. One of the ninjas stepped out of rank and engaged Bruce. In minutes, the ninja had run Bruce into the ground. The ninja pulled off the mask, revealing the face of a Filipino woman.

The Arab looked impressed. "Lady Shiva has fought the finest martial artists in the world. She has defeated them all. Only two others have lasted as long as you did. I believe you trained under both, Detective." Bruce smiled. He liked that title. "In all fairness, your dashing good looks might have distracted her."

Rā's al Ghūl looked Bruce in the eye again. "I know what you want. You need not even ask. I will train you. Who knows? Someday you might last an entire round with Lady Shiva. Fighting, I mean." Lady Shiva blushed. Bruce looked up at Alfred for approval. He clearly didn't trust this man, but he would stand by whatever Bruce decided to do. His dual role as butler and father figure made such compromises inevitable.

Bruce shook the hand of Rā's al Ghūl. "Prepare a room for the Detective." Rā's walked through the massive doors of the monastery. "Remind me to introduce you to my daughter." Rā's paused. "Training can get rather lonely. I would not deprave a boy your age a chance at romance."

In latter years, studying psychology at Miskatonic University, he would learn about a cult mind trick called the love bomb. The cult leader would bombard the new cultist with informal praise. With time, the praise would stop and the informality would cease. By then, the cult would control every aspect of their lives. If he had known that he had just joined a cult, he would never have shaken that man's hand.

Thinking back, Bruce Wayne would wonder why he stayed so long. Every time he remembered a half-Arab half-Filipino girl in a Chinese dress and the first words she said to him. "You have a cute face." After that, he would have followed Rā's al Ghūl to the gates of Hell, which he did.


	5. Part 5

Disclaimer: I do not own DC Comics or its characters.

Caped Crusader  
Four Years in Hell

Bruce Wayne, age eighteen, had spent four years in Hell. Seventy-two months of fighting to maintain his sanity. Twenty hundred and eight weeks of trying to preserve his identity. Deep in the jungles of Southern Mindanao, a war waged over Bruce Wayne's soul. The family Rā's al Ghūl had introduced to him turned on him. He could sense them working away at him. The family attempted to break whatever reservations stood in the way of full membership.

Life had given him what he wished for. He had received the best training in the world. In four years of extensive training, Rā's al Ghūl had taught Bruce four decades' worth of lessons. He had acquired a formidable hybrid martial art that incorporated elements from jujutsu, ninjutsu and multiple forms of kung fu.

The depth of his experience frightened Bruce Wayne. Rā's al Ghūl even knew ninja tricks he claimed to have learned from actual ninjas. He taught Bruce Wayne his best stuff, stuff he didn't even teach Lady Shiva though he seemed to have a relationship with her that went beyond the professional or the platonic.

Speaking of relationships, Talia had grown a great deal from the love-shy fourteen-year-old who hid from him when he first arrived. Age eighteen, Talia sent out all the signals. Though Wayne men had reputations as ladies' men, eleven years of obsessive training and self-imposed isolation had blunted his seductive edge.

He didn't have to try very hard though. Talia trusted him with her life. Bruce Wayne might almost say he had fallen in love if he believed in that sort of thing. The more he looked at Talia, the more he believed.

It began simple enough. She would take him aside from his training and she'd practice on him. She kissed him repeatedly. She always had a fairly convincing excuse. All the time she commented that she need to know how to kiss when she grew up. Her future husband would naturally expect to marry a good kisser.

Talia's presence had aided Alfred Pennyworth in his half-hearted consent. Also, Rā's al Ghūl had found a novel way to neutralize his butler's impact on Bruce's life. He had a book collection rivaling the Library of Alexandria. He had first editions dating back seven centuries. Quite the bibliophile, Alfred couldn't resist.

Bruce Wayne went incognito with his senior students to the mountain retreat not far from the monastery. There, he saw what looked like the fiery pit mentioned in the Book of Revelations. The searing liquids undulated. In Arabic, they prayed to something called Lazarus Pits. During the ceremony, Rā's al Ghūl patted Bruce on the back. "Excellent work, Detective. A lesser man would have fallen for your disguise. Alas, I know you better than you know yourself."

One night, Bruce and Talia crossed the line. In an abandoned church in the nearby town, they consummated their relationship. It did not end with the church. Their hormones did a lot of the work. The natives of the village almost certainly thought them insane. In the throes of passion, Talia confessed a secret.

"Bruce, I don't know how to say this." Bruce nodded with easy acceptance. He waited his whole life for a moment like this. To listen to a beautiful woman say she loved him. "I want you to kill my father." Only half hearing what she said it took a couple moments for the full force of her words to register.

Bruce stared at Talia intently. The questions poured out like rain during monsoon season. "You couldn't understand unless you really knew the man." She curled her arms around her knees. "He wants me to follow in his footsteps. Only I know what he really does for a living."

The obvious question arose. "What, Bruce? Didn't you know? My father trains his students so he could sell their talents to the highest bidders. Mercenaries. Assassins. Bodyguards. He uses the money to fund his . . . experiments." Talia told him horror stories about attempted genocides more befitting a supervillain than a martial arts instructor.

Talia handed Bruce something. A Desert Eagle handgun snatched from the weapons cache at the mountain retreat. A venomous look crawled across her face. "Kill him. A moment's courage and all these horrors will end."

Bruce Wayne felt deathly ill. The love of his life asked him to kill a man whose existence perpetuated an industry of death. Killing him might actually make the world a better place. It'd free his daughter and himself from his unrelenting tyranny and growing madness. But something felt wrong.

Armed with a Desert Eagle, Bruce walked into Rā's al Ghūl's study. His extensive training in invisibility would come back to haunt him. Just as he descended on the figure in his chair, he fired a shot through the back of his chair and into his head. Only now did he realize that Rā's al Ghūl had set up a scarecrow.

A blade pressed against Bruce's throat. "Excellent work, Detective." Four years ago, he loved that title. Now he wished he'd never heard the word. "A lesser man would have died just then." Rā's al Ghūl tried to hand him his blade. "Enough practice. Time for the real thing." Bruce slapped the blade from his hand.

Bruce refused. He had regained his senses when he thought he had really killed him. "This will change your mind." From the dark, Lady Shiva brought out Talia gagged and bonded. "Kill me or kill her. I don't care which." As Bruce's muscles tensed up, he made the hardest decision of his life. He dropped the handgun.

Rā's al Ghūl shook his head in disappointment. "I believe the Detective must learn his lesson." He gave Lady Shiva the signal. In moments, Bruce once again watched a loved one die, this time by way of bare hands. "I tried to train you. If you will not kill to save loved ones, you do not belong among warriors. Now . . . get out of my sight."

Crestfallen in a way he had felt since his parents died, he and Alfred gathered their things and marched through a mosquito-infested jungle to a middle-of-nowhere town. Bruce's martial arts training had ended. Rā's al Ghūl had broken Bruce's fighting spirit or rather he proved he never had one to begin with.

Bruce Wayne wondered about his obligations. He couldn't kill even under the most extreme circumstances. Such a gutless neurotic couldn't bring order to Gotham. Nothing learned in a dozen lifetimes could compensate for such a glaring weakness. He left the monastery with the fight beaten out of him.


	6. Part 6

Disclaimer: I do not own DC Comics or its characters.

Caped Crusader  
Coward in Retreat

Bruce Smith, age 20, recalled a time when he had all the confidence in the world. He knew what he would do when he grew up. He learned the means by which to do it. Now, he had his confidence stolen from him. Rā's al Ghūl had turned Bruce from an avenging angel of death into a coward in retreat.

Bruce always knew he couldn't kill an innocent. Only a monster could do that. He had no idea he couldn't kill anyone. Rā's al Ghūl murdered the love of Bruce's life and he didn't have the guts to put him down.

Somewhere along the line, his hatred of his parents' murderer turned into something else. He could not inflict death or even touch a gun without turning into his parents' murderer. No matter the reason, this limitation placed him at a grave disadvantage in his crusade to rid Gotham of evil.

As a favor to Alfred, Bruce allowed him to return to Gotham. After nearly endangering his life with the League of Shadows, Alfred deserved a vacation from Bruce's vacation. Now more than ever, he needed to stay away from whatever reminded him of Gotham and his ill-fated promise.

For two years, he had abandoned that promise and lived with a traveling circus. As Bruce Smith, he made a lot of friends. The Flying Grayson had fallen in love with fellow acrobat, Mary Robinson. Pretty soon she would bear him a boy. The couple offered to name the child after Bruce if he served as the best man.

The conversation brought up horrible memories. The doctor operating on Martha Wayne saw early signs of pregnancy. According to Thomas' journal, the red book, dead certain Martha would have a boy; he even picked out a name. _Richard._ When Bruce told them this story, they insisted on naming the child Richard.

"Doesn't that mean the other kids will call him Dick?" That got a laugh from both of them. Ditching his life-long obsession with death had its advantages. Bruce laughed a little easier. He even told his first joke.

Like many children had dreamed, he had run away to the circus. Here, he had a family who loved him. The troop traveled throughout the Midwest, the West Coast and Great Lakes region. They no longer toured on the East Coast. Bruce would never have to see Gotham again. He could live a long happy life with these colorful folks.

Passing Waylon Jones, Bruce tossed him a raw fish. Though he found sideshow work degrading, Waylon had developed a taste for the raw fish they used to have to force-feed him. "Thanks a lot, Buddy. I owe you one." Waylon smiled as he scarfed down the mackerel.

Bruce had not even gotten to his best friend of the bunch. No one really knew his name. Everyone just called him Jack. Though only four years his senior, Jack had a checkered past. Also a native of Gotham, Jack ran away from an abusive father and a drug addict mother at the age of six.

In his travels, Jack learned things. Boomerangs, bolas, throwing knives, sleight-of-hand, escapology and magic tricks. Though he'd never admit it in mixed company, he knew far more dangerous stuff and considered the Anarchist Cookbook his Bible. Jack had more uses than a Swiss Army Knife.

Bruce witnessed Jack's latest trick. An avid fan of Harry Houdini, he had practiced his most celebrated trick, escaping from a straitjacket. Jack smiled. "I hope I never end up in one of these," he joked as he pulled it off. Jack loved teaching Bruce his tricks, his special way of showing off to him.

Bruce had built up enough trust that Jack showed him the contents of the lockbox under his bed. In a plastic cover, Jack held up a _Red Hood #1_. He loved the character. Unlike other superheroes, he had no powers. He couldn't fly or bounce bullets off his chest. He just used the gifts God gave him, nothing else.

Bruce always had the same comment. "I don't buy it. So Arthur Knight watched his aunt and uncle murdered. So what? People witness violent crimes all the time. None of them turned into superheroes."

Jack always had the same reply. "High time one of them did, don't you think? I mean you remember Gotham, right, Bruce? If you had the choice between Park Row and the Gaza Strip, where would you live?"

Bruce had actually lived in the Gaza Strip. _Tough call._ Bruce redirected the conversation. "Well, even if the witness to a violent crime could turn himself into a superhero, wouldn't he have started to doubt his mission after all those years?" Bruce looked at the Red Hood on the cover. "I mean, didn't he ever want to quit and lead a normal life? I bet his aunt and uncle would have wanted it that way."

In the early mornings, Bruce still practiced his martial arts. Though no longer needed to bash in the skulls of criminals, it did, as his father said it would, relieve the tension of daily life. It surprised him how many people had personal tragedies like his own. It surprised him how many people didn't realize that. Little by little, Bruce Smith won back the sanity Bruce Wayne had lost the night his parents died.

Tragedy though had a way of following people around. Tragedy knew where to find Bruce Wayne, even as Bruce Smith. It had zeroed in on his life and would not let go. Tragedy struck the day of the wedding. Jack, always the joker, wore his favorite clown make-up to the ceremony along with his purple tuxedo.

Anthony Zucco had wrestled control of the Chicago underworld from the Vitis. Even a traveling circus had to pay protection in case the Vitis beat him to it. People in the circus lived by a simple philosophy. _Go along to get along._ If the scary _Godfather_ reject wanted his money, no one here would put up a fight.

Guess who hated the idea? Leeches like Zucco would always want more money. Normally, Bruce's opinion would not have counted for much. Then, the Flying Grayson backed him up. Before long, the owner, Jupiter Haley, had half his company threatening to leave if he paid. Like any good acrobat, John knew how to face down fear.

On an overcast day, two men in Armani suits appeared at the wedding. Bruce didn't need his training as a detective to pick them out of the crowd. He whispered in the ears of the Flying Grayson and Mary Robinson. Ever so carefully, they snuck out the back. First sign of trouble and these guys would open fire.

Then all hell broke loose. Two hired guns fired into the crowd. The bearded woman and the strongman died first, throwing themselves headlong into the fray. Jack grabbed hold of Bruce. "We need to get out of here." Bruce would love to, just one problem. Mary Robinson's water had broken. "Jesus H. Christ. What do you we do?"

_What do we do, indeed?_ Old-fashioned in their ideas about childbirth, the Waynes had Alfred delivered Bruce at the Wayne Manor. A registered nurse, Alfred had taught Bruce the trade of a midwife. "When will I _ever_ need to know this, Alfred?" Though a rhetoric question at the time, he realized the answer. _Now._

With gunfire and the screams of the innocent around him, Bruce used the only skill he taught himself, how to stay calm amidst chaotic violence. He delivered a boy healthy as ever despite his eventful birth. He cut the umbilical cord with a Bowie knife. Bruce signaled the Flying Grayson to carry Mary Robinson to safety. He looked unsure. "Don't worry. I'll take good care of Dick. I won't let anything happen to him."

With Jack, Bruce made a dash for the haunted house with the baby in his arms. These guys would keep killing everyone in sight if they got the chance. Bruce would not give them that chance. Holding the Bowie knife in his mouth, he dove behind a coffin. Perhaps, the dark would give him the edge he needed.

The dynamic duo marched into the haunted house as Jack hid Bruce and the baby. The best training in the world and Bruce could not silence a crying child easier than anyone else. "Hey, clown," said the bigger of the two. He pointed his handgun at Jack. "I know I heard somebody. Show me or die."

Jack stared down the barrel of the gun. "Die." Jack reached for his throwing knives. The bullet struck Jack between the eyes. Dick started crying again. Forced to improvise, Bruce laid Dick in a nest of blankets.

Bruce killed the lights. With his Bowie knife, he triggered a couple of the scares. The two fired on a skeleton that swung down at them. The two riddled the pop-up witch with bullets. Bruce took Jack's throwing knives. He threw them, not to kill, just to distract. Before long, the pair of large hulking Italian-Americans ran out of bullets. Bruce shouldn't have waited this long. Too many people died.

As they reached for their clips of ammunition, Bruce went to work on Zucco's henchmen. Sensei Ken Watanabe's Karate, Haim Levine's Krav Maga and Rā's al Ghūl's Demon Fist had united into a very dangerous and unpredictable combatant fighting to protect a life he helped bring into the world.

Still glowing from his victory, he saw to the two men, now half-naked and hog-tied. The circus performers came out to stare at this glorious sight. In the rush of adrenaline, Bruce had forgotten about Jack. When he touched his wrist to lift the corpse onto his back, he felt something incredible.

Jack still had a weak pulse. Bruce screamed for an ambulance. In Chicago, he heard the news. The Mazzucchelli Brothers had killed seven and wounded twenty-one others. Waylon Jones, Gator Boy, had disappeared without a trace. The doctors said that Jack would survive but not without serious brain damage.

As for Anthony Zucco, he suffered a fate worse than death. The humiliating defeat of his henchmen rallied his enemies against him. He barely made it out of Chicago with his life. His empire usurped by his rivals, Tony Zucco had gone from a crime lord to a man marked for death.

In that hospital in Chicago, much like Gotham General Hospital before, Bruce Wayne renewed his promise to rid Gotham of evil. He had witnessed heroes who blindly faced down death. All without a single thought as to whether or not they could win. Bruce had almost forgotten that such heroes existed in the world.

After he aced his GED tests, Bruce Wayne would restart his education in a more formal setting. Bruce Wayne boarded a midnight train to the East Coast. He would not return to Gotham just yet. Instead, he would attend Miskatonic University, the country's leading authority on criminal psychology.


	7. Part 7

Disclaimer: I do not own DC Comics or its characters.

Caped Crusader  
Homecoming

Bruce Wayne, age 24, had graduated from Miskatonic University with honors. He deserved it. His professors, even years later, would hold every other student up to the bar that Bruce Wayne had set. As expected, the obsessively studious Bruce Wayne made a lot of his fellow students very angry.

Many found it odd that the heir to the Wayne fortune worked so hard in such a demanding field. Counselors questioned how a criminology degree and a psychology minor would help Bruce run a financial empire. Bruce Wayne always gave the same cryptic answer. "I have bigger plans than Wayne Enterprises." During the summers, he visited Santa Prisca.

Indeed, he had reached the end of his life-long journey. He had only one thing left to do. He had to return home to Gotham, the place where it all started 18 years ago. Fighting the mobsters at Haley's Circus had taught Bruce the value of theatrics. If he planned to take on heavily-armed men with non-lethal tactics, he would have to learn, like a stage magician, to put on a show.

From his youth, he remembered a time he fell into a cavern beneath Wayne Manor. He remembered the bats racing around, filling him with dread. That feeling of dread would set the tone of the persona he would create. Bruce Smith had taught him the value of alter egos.

In that same cavern, he found a dark alien world that he felt strangely at home in. Neither the friendly façade of Wayne Manor nor the vicious war zone of Gotham, the Batcave would serve as his private studio, a place where he could store all the props and stage equipment that would aid his admittedly flamboyant style of vigilante justice.

Through shady deals on the black market in Santa Prisca, he bought Nyctoprene, a top-secret prototype with a controversial track record. Designed for Peña Dura prison guards, the skintight ballistic cloth weighed significantly less than Kevlar yet provided equivalent protection. It also had the tear-resistant quality of a stab-proof vest. It would stop bullets and bladed weapons alike.

In truth, it had only two flaws. Firstly, the raw material to make three suits cost more than the annual salary of most world leaders. Secondly, tests revealed a sensitivity to UV radiation many times greater than any other body armor. Nyctoprene as its name implied preferred darkness. _Perfect armor for a Dark Knight._

This time, Bruce would have no help from Alfred. He would make this monster by himself. Against the gray cloth, he placed a black bat in a yellow ellipse over his chest, the location of a ceramic trauma plate. If the bad guys wanted to shoot him, he'd give them something to shoot at. The flashy emblem meant he would need something to conceal it with while traveling in stealth.

Bruce did body work on a black Lamborghini Murciélago. Friends with Edmund Dorrance, a blind mechanic in Zesti City, Bruce Wayne learned a few dirty tricks for increasing vehicle performance. He took his time. The emergence of a masked vigilante coinciding with the triumphant return of the Prince of Gotham would raise suspicions. Seven months and he would begin his quest to take back the night.

His first obstacle came from Lucius Fox, Head CEO of Wayne Enterprises. He guarded the equipment he needed for his nightly endeavors. His penetrating intellect made any anonymous theft of the equipment impossible. To get the equipment, he'd have to borrow it from him.

Everyone feared Lucius Fox and his all-seeing eye. In the chemical research branch of the Applied Sciences Division, Jonathan Crane had developed a type of insect repellant that actually made harmful insects afraid of affected crops. Lucius Fox busted him for human experimentation.

Lucius Fox had single-handedly shut down the cryonics wing of the Applied Sciences Division. Victor Fries had an enormous knack when it came to freezing things. His misappropriation of company property to save his dying wife Nora earned him a pink slip and a laboratory mishap of mythological proportions.

The most infamous of Fox's interventions led to the arrest of William Earle, the former Head CEO. He had aided a federal investigation about Wayne Enterprises' ties to a performance-enhancing drug called Venom. Ol' Earle made a lot of new friends in Blackgate. Bottom line: No one could sneak anything past Lucius.

Bruce Wayne asked an innocent enough question about the new prototype. "Oh, you mean the descent cape." If Q had a black cousin, Lucius Fox fitted the bill to a T. He rattled on about how it would replace parachutes and hang-gliders as soon as the tech boys got the cost of scale production down.

Lucius directed his attention to a belt in the display case. "This sucker would make a cop's duty belt jealous." Again, he launched into a lecture about the utility belt. Acetylene blowtorch. Halogen flashlight. Smoke pellets. Flash grenades. Encrypted signal communicator. Again, the price tag proved the enemy of mass production.

Finally, Lucius ended the tour with the pièce de résistance. "This next invention will revolutionize the industry. We got requests from seven governments for a demo." Bruce Wayne could not believe his eyes. Wayne Enterprises had invented a grapnel gun like the ones in the comic books.

Bruce smiled. "Great, I'll take them all." Lucius mirrored his smile with a frown. All the well-orchestrated frivolity had struck a sour note. "If you don't feel comfortable with this, you could just turn your back. I'll just make sure they go missing. No one gets embarrassed and everyone saves face." Bruce forced the biggest smile he could muster.

Lucius Fox shook his head in disappointment. "What you suggested sounds an awful lot like a crime, Mr. Wayne." He marched down the corridor. "You understand I can't just give this stuff away to every bored billionaire who asks for it." A look of askance came over his face. "Unless said billionaire put this equipment to good use."

Bruce Wayne pulled him aside and whispered to him in a conspiratorial tone. "Between you and me, I have received an offer from a very interested party. He has a dire need for our equipment." Lucius greeted Bruce's enthusiasm with skepticism. "Don't believe me. Watch the news. You'll see. He'll make very good use of your equipment."

Lucius Fox handed over the descent cape, utility belt and grapnel gun with a "What have I done?" look on his face. Bruce Wayne walked out of the Applied Sciences Division of Wayne Enterprises. "I would prefer if no one else knew of this." Lucius waved his hands in surrender. Bruce's homecoming had reached its end.


	8. Part 8

Disclaimer: I do not own DC Comics or its characters.

Caped Crusader  
Trick-or-Treat

October 30. Devil's Night. No date on the calendar had more resonance than that one. His parents had died at 10:47 PM that night. Sometimes, Bruce Wayne wondered what he would do to him if he ever caught up with their killer.

The cowl had some of Bruce's best stuff. It had night-vision lenses. It had audio processors that could extend the range of human hearing tenfold. Both served as flash defenses, allowing him to filter loud noises like gunfire and bright lights like those produced by flash grenades. He ordered both via dummy corporations in Central Asia.

He did however leave the chin exposed for good reason. His approach to fighting crime relied heavily on theatrics. The criminals needed to see his mouth in order to get an idea of his emotional state. In short, he needed at least part of his face to strike fear into the hearts of criminals. "How do I look, Alfred?"

Alfred Pennyworth, dedicated servant in more ways than butler and valet, looked over Bruce's get-up. "Like a grown man dressed up to go trick-or-treating." Despite his dry British wit, he had perfectly described the situation. He had a trick for the criminals and a treat for the good people of Gotham. Tonight, a legend would walk the streets.

As he descended into the Batcave, Alfred grabbed his arm. "Make sure you do this for the right reasons." In his selfishness, he had forgotten about Alfred's own tragedy. Alfred Pennyworth had lost his parents when the Irish Republic Army bombed their church. If Bruce left Wayne Manor tonight with vengeance in his heart, he would not only disrespect his own parents but Alfred's as well. "Don't worry. I will." If only he had truly believed that.

Unaccustomed to patrols, he went for the smallest fish first. Amidst the winding trails of Grant Park, he spotted a hooded man robbing a couple in front of their six-year-old daughter. To say it brought back some memories would not even begin to describe this feeling of _déjà vu_.

Thankfully, no one died from the encounter. Bruce followed the family from a safe distance. Another punk looked ready to jump them. Only in Gotham could someone run the risk of getting mugged twice in one night. The dude caught one look at their invisible escort and thought twice.

As soon as he saw the family off to safety, Bruce hunted down the hooded man that took their money. Contrary to pop culture notions of crooks, only real stupid ones stopped to count the money. The hooded man put the wallet in his Ford P.O.S. and walked into his apartment.

Bruce knew a dozen quiet ways to gain entrance to his apartment. He opted to break the door down. "Who's there?" He mimicked his question. "Don't mess with me, I've got a gun." Bruce stepped out of the shadows. "A little early for Halloween, don't you think?" Bruce mimicked his words right back at him. "Forget you!"

Bruce ducked back into the cover of darkness as the shot broke a lamp to his immediate left. Only someone with a severe eye problem of some sort could miss such an easy shot. Whatever the reason, Bruce had no desire to break in his body armor so early in the night. He still had a lot of work to do.

Like the haunted house all over again, the hooded man fired his piece at every noise. Before long, he had run out of bullets. Something about that gun seemed awfully familiar. Taking a dramatic pause for the fear to set in, Bruce rushed in. Glaring at a man with a glass eye laid siege by gruesome scar tissue, he remembered the night his parents died. How he gouged out of one of his eyes. It made karmic sense that he would meet him on his first outing.

Bruce pulled a wallet out from his pocket. His parents' murderer, though a monster in his eyes, had a human name. _Joseph Chilton._ "Listen up, Joe Chill, you took something from me. I intend to take it back." Hot fluid ran down the leg of his pants. "You'll lose more than bladder control when I finish with you."

As the memories surged into his mind, he blacked out. His grip tightened around his neck. Suddenly, something akin to a sledgehammer slammed into Bruce's back. Someone had shot him. He turned around to face his attacker.

A two-bit hood like Joe Chill couldn't afford muscle. A familiar face greeted Bruce. James Gordon, the man who questioned him the night of the murders. As a child, he hated him for the ordeal he put him though. Now, as an adult, he understood that he had only done his job, a rarity for a Gotham cop. "Stop or you'll shoot you in the face."

James Gordon possessed the ability to pinpoint the exposed parts of his cowl. Ex-military, he probably had flawless aim at this range. It would not have taken much for him to put a bullet through his eye. But like Bruce Wayne in that monastery six years ago, he spied a crisis of conscience, an unwillingness to pull the trigger a second time.

Bruce deployed a smoke pellet. Bruce slipped away with Jim's gun scoring one more direct hit. Bruce had experienced getting shot without a ballistic vest. Getting shot with one on did not change the degree of pain. Instead of something cutting through him, he felt like a crazed construction worker had bludgeoned him with a 2x4.

While Alfred questioned its logic, Bruce never doubted his earlier decision to create an intentional bull's-eye in the center of his chest. The smoke screen had left the yellow ellipse of his emblem and the white skin of his face the only visible targets. One shot to the head could have ended Bruce's crime-fighting career in a heartbeat.

Bruce Wayne would certainly luck out if he hadn't broken a rib from that bit of nonsense. Despite his incredible pain, his night had not ended yet. The Batmobile routed a message into his audio processors. The police scanner caught reports of a clown robbing a bank at the corner of Ellsworth Avenue and Veidt Street. _Only in Gotham._


	9. Part 9

Disclaimer: I do not own DC Comics or its characters.

Caped Crusader  
Familiar Faces

"Impossible." A word one should never use when describing Gotham. But still, how else could he explain the familiar faces he had seen tonight? First, he met Joe Chill trying to rob another family in front of their six-year-old. Then, Jim Gordon stopped him from killing Joe.

Now, he looked in as Jack in his favorite clown make-up and purple tuxedo threatened to kill a crying baby if the mother did not silence him fast enough. He had lengthened the edge of his lips, a technique known as the Glasgow grin. It looked as though Jack had carved a big smiling scar onto his face. It had a jarring effect to say the least.

Though not strictly open, Jack had caught the night shift preparing to leave. According to the police scanner, he wasted no words. He killed two guards. As if fueled by an uncontrollable urge to desecrate their corpses, he carved into their faces the same grin that adorned his own mutilated face.

"Jack!" Bruce Wayne had neglected an indirect approach to the situation as he crashed through the stained glass dome on the ceiling of the bank. His descent cape broke his fall as he landed next to Jack. "Jack, please stop this. Whatever happened, you don't have to do this."

Jack looked around at the hostages he had lined up on the ground. "Jack? Jack? Does anyone know a Jack?" Jack caressed his chin and smiled a heinous smile. "Sorry, I don't know any Jack. Unless you mean Jack Nicholson." He smirked for a moment. "Do I look like Jack Nicholson to you?" Bruce could tell he had not lied. Jack no longer recognized his own name. "I'm the Joker. Put it there."

Bruce fell to his knees as high voltage electricity from his joy buzzer coursed through his body. Jack used to love his joy buzzers. The Joker seemed to remember that much about Jack. The Joker seemed to act a lot like an evil twin of Jack, right down to his posture and mannerisms.

It occurred to Bruce what had happened. The doctors said he had suffered serious brain damage. Perhaps, instead of turning him into a vegetable, it damaged parts of his brain that affected his personality. Bruce felt like apologizing for what he had done. Jack really had died that day.

Bruce turned to the hostages. "Everyone get up and run. I'll handle this." As the Joker prepared to put a bullet in the six-month-old baby of a bank employee, Bruce grabbed the gun. Bruce and the Joker struggled to gain control of the gun. Jack once fought to protect a baby like the one he now threatened to kill.

The Joker's make-up ran as sweat trickled down his forehead. No one dared move. "Get up or I'll kill you!" That got them running. Bruce didn't care who trusted him and who didn't. He was in the business of saving lives.

The Joker smiled as a right hook collided with his chin. If Bruce didn't know any better, he'd think the Joker enjoyed that last punch. "You know me, but I don't know you." He tugged on his chin. "Lemme guess. An inmate at Arkham? A sideshow freak?" Joker head-butted Bruce. "C'mon. Gimme a hint."

Bruce tripped the Joker and sent him onto the ground. "You want to know my name?" The Joker nodded furiously. Bruce seized the gun. He spilled the bullets out of the chamber. "I'm Batman." As the Joker lied on the marble floor, the unexpected happened. The police arrived. The Joker took the initiative and ran off. 

His teeth gritted into a permanent deadlock, Bruce raced after the Joker out the back door. He had ducked into the Axis Chemicals factory across the street. Firing his grapnel gun, he ascended to the catwalk above open vats of chemical waste. The company must have bribed the health inspector with enough money to retire on.

"I have to ask you something." A maniacal laugh shook the air. "Can bats swim?" Out of nowhere, the Joker swung out from the rapports on a rope. Knocked over the railing, he reached for his utility belt. He launched a flash grenade. Activating his descent cape, Bruce glided to safety.

Blinded by the flash of light, the Joker lost his grip and tumbled into the vat below, his laughter forever etched in Bruce's mind. The Joker had once caught a bullet between the eyes. Bruce knew that he would see him again before too long.

Bruce had only caught the tail end of the Joker's crime spree. He threatened Mayor Hamilton Hill with a fish. He carved bloody grins onto hookers in the Red Light District. He distributed money with his face on the $1 bill. He sent a bus load of orphans to the bottom of the Miskatonic River. He decapitated a statue at the Finger Memorial.

A man like the Joker could do anything. Everything Bruce had learned about the criminal mind at college fell apart when it came to the Joker. Sometimes he committed heinous crimes. Sometimes he played harmless pranks. He shifted between these two extremes without rhyme or reason. He couldn't understand the Joker anymore than a normal person could understand him.

Alfred asked how the night went. He got shot twice, electrocuted and narrowly avoided falling to a vat of chemical waste. "It went well," Bruce concluded. He took off the Batsuit. Glancing over its condition, he would need one of his spare suits sooner rather than latter. Bruce plunged head first into his bed.

Eighteen years gone and Wayne Manor still felt like home. He slept like the dead. He needed to wake up bright and early for a board meeting. His return to Gotham carried certain responsibilities. One of them had a name, Wayne Enterprises. His father had an excuse for not seeing to the family business. He had pursued a career as a surgeon.

Bruce Wayne, as far as the world knew, did nothing with his time and money. In terms of a secret identity, this conspicuous omission of a personal life might prove problematic. While he didn't want to perpetuate the myth of the bored billionaire playboy the tabloids had concocted for him, he would have to take special precautions so no one would suspect his dual identity.

Alfred Pennyworth suggested for him to cultivate a social life. Selina Kyle, Gotham's newest addition to the upper crust, had sent out invitations to a Halloween party. When Alfred insinuated the possibility of romance, Bruce reminded him of a little heartache named Talia. The last time Cupid struck, Death followed in his wake. Everyone he loved always died on him.


	10. Part 10

Disclaimer: I do not own DC Comics or its characters.

Caped Crusader  
Responsibilities

October 31. Halloween. Bruce Wayne arrived at Wayne Tower at nine o'clock on the tick. He didn't want to seem tired for the meeting. Still, a yawn slipped out. A few executives nudged each other in the ribs. They knew a couple things that could exhaust Bruce Wayne like that.

"In conclusion, I shall appoint a new Board of Directors to Janus Cosmetics. Of course, the current owner will receive a generous severance package. The Sionis family did a lot of good for Gotham. I would hate to see this one mistake sully their good name." Despite his enthusiasm, the board seemed less than impressed.

After the meeting, Lucius Fox wished for a meeting with Bruce alone. He expected a lot of things from Lucius Fox. He would have never suspected a stiff slap to the side of the head from him. Lucius then went on to imply that he handed his equipment over to an escaped mental patient.

"Trust me. Everything will work out. Batman . . ."

Lucius clutched his sinuses. "Batman? So this escaped mental patient has a name. Can furnish me with an address too?" Bruce shrugged helplessly. "God, you don't know where to find him. Great!" Lucius looked ready to throw up. "Do you know what the boys at Blackgate will do to money bags like us?"

Bruce reassured him that no one would get arrested. After the business transaction, Bruce Wayne made sure to list the procured items as stolen. Even if anyone recognized the equipment as coming from Wayne Enterprises, they didn't have a case against them. "Well, at least tell me why, Bruce."

Anger flashed in Bruce's eyes. "Why? I don't know. Because people get mugged coming home from work every day of the week. Because many consider life in Gotham marginally better than most Third-World countries. Because Carmine Falcone owns half the city Sal Maroni doesn't."

Lucius patted Bruce on the shoulder. "I know you miss them, Bruce. I miss them too. Sometimes, I want to take a baseball bat to the head of the person responsible for their deaths." Lucius gave Bruce a knowing look. "But helping Batman won't bring them back."

Though Lucius did not fully comprehend his dual identity, he knew the basics. Bruce believed that Batman could rid Gotham of evil. Lucius Fox questioned that belief and his doubt shook Bruce to his very core.

James Gordon, apparently still a lieutenant after twenty years on the force, had taken Joseph Chilton to jail. When he checked his record, he found outstanding warrants for his arrest. His record didn't include the murder of Thomas and Martha Wayne, a fact Bruce both cherished and despised.

On the one hand, no one would ever connect Joe Chill to Bruce Wayne. On the other hand, his parents' murderer would forever remain a faceless nameless demon in the public's eye. A bogeyman who gunned down Gotham's wealthy elite, people once thought immune to street crime. Years of training wasted on a one-eyed caricature of a man who wet himself when confronted by a real-life bogeyman.

Bruce Wayne knew a lot about runaway myths. His myth, just one-day-old, had received media exposure. Everyone theorized about the Batman, even his earliest eyewitnesses. Bruce did not trademark his image; so street vendors had slapped his bat symbol on everything they could sell.

To say the least, it cheapened the effect he hoped for. He wanted people, especially criminals, to fear him. Instead, they celebrated Batman as a merchandising icon, a boon to the tourism industry. Bruce wanted to help the city but not like this. No matter how hard Batman brooded, people still saw him as a superhero, a comic book character brought to life, no more threatening than a Saturday morning cartoon.

Still, he tried to stay optimistic. Batman had done what he set out to do. He had taken down two criminals without getting himself killed. At this rate, Batman might have an impact on the rampant street crime. In one night, he had stopped a mugger just by exuding an air of menace. With time, that effect would magnify. Gotham would turn into a giant haunted house with mobsters shooting blindly into the dark.

Before Batman turned in last night, he placed bugs throughout known gangster locales, even the Iceberg Lounge. If anything happened to Sal Maroni and Carmine Falcone, the major movers and shakers of the Gotham underworld, the tension between Oswald Cobblepot and Rupert Thorne would erupt into an all-out war.

As he came home, Alfred treated him with a recording of the results. Films would make a person think that a bug in the right place revealed everything. That proved far from true. Mafia talked about matters that everyone present had prior knowledge of. It made their conversations somewhat of a coded language.

Still, the conversations kept coming back to two names. The Roman and the Boss. It didn't take a criminologist to see that as a reference to Carmine Falcone and Sal Maroni. The conversations painted a picture of an illegal arms deal tonight. Bruce Wayne might not attend Selina Kyle's party after all.

Alfred sighed in frustration. Even the thought of Bruce having pretend happiness filled him with hope. His obligations to Batman ran those hopes into the ground. Alfred would make up a story about a nonexistent business deal or an equally nonexistent Swedish runway model. Only one part of the lie rang true. Bruce Wayne had other obligations to attend to this evening.


	11. Part 11

Disclaimer: I do not own DC Comics or its characters.

Caped Crusader  
Halloween Night

Four thugs hit the ground in unison. _Amateurs._ On the way to Miller Harbor, he had intercepted seven guys about to rape a red-haired woman in a lab coat. The men had chased her half a block from a green Sedan with blown-out tires and bashed-in windows. Her mace and self-defense classes had only stopped two of them. When Batman appeared, one tried to run off. Batman said "tried" because his new invention made all the difference.

During the afternoon, Bruce Wayne had perfected this new invention. As a thrown weapon, it blended the best parts of a shuriken, a boomerang and a bola. As a grappling hook, it fit excellently with the grapnel gun's compact design. In short, Bruce Wayne had invented an all-purpose crime-fighting tool, the batarang.

Halloween night arrived too soon. Bruce Wayne wanted more time. More time to prepare. More time to practice tonight's act. More time to do any number of things that a vigilante had to do before marching off to battle. As Alfred attended to the trick-or-treaters, Batman would dismantle an illegal arms deal.

Many cities like Gotham didn't have trick-or-treaters. It took an unspoken trust to let child go door to door, accepting food from complete strangers. Bruce Wayne wanted to foster that trust. To this day, the fact that he never went trick-or-treating weighed heavily on his mind.

Bruce Wayne had toyed with the idea of rigging the Batmobile with a remote control. Autodidact or not, it would Bruce take months to figure that out. Gel tires, bulletproof windows and a dashboard computer console went a long way to turning a high-end sports car into the Batmobile.

For now, it would suffice. For now, everything would suffice. He needed to give himself the time to grow. If he rushed through the learning process, he would only get himself killed. He needed patience even in the face of the manic and murderous hordes of the Gotham underworld.

Sadly enough, the mafia-controlled infrastructure of Gotham meant he could not go to the police. Even James Gordon, the only openly honest cop on the force, knuckled under the power structure years ago. Enlisting his help would require finesse.

As he waited, Batman perched on the corner of a rooftop with inhuman patience. Hours passed and nothing happened. Every sound echoed in his audio processors. Every ounce of light got absorbed by his night-vision lenses. Right on schedule, the ship from Kasnia pulled into Miller Harbor.

Batman began to worry about a reference in the bugged conversations. The mobsters had mentioned a name. The Demon. Something about that name sounded familiar. Where had he heard that name before?

A bat colony from the Batcave visited terror onto the fearless mafia; Batman took them out one at a time. The sonar beacon had arrived at his doorstep an hour before he left. Lucius Fox, though still weary of Batman, trusted Bruce's instincts. He thought the Batman might have use for it.

As the bats struck down the mobsters and sent their muscle scrambling, Batman watched in terror as a blood-stained scarecrow stood motionless among the cloud of leathery wings. "Trick-or-treat, Batman."

Acting on pure stupidity, Bruce tried to take him out with one blow. The scarecrow dodged the batarang. Batman rushed in to deliver a palm heel strike to his solar plexus. The scarecrow countered by spraying his face with a noxious gas. "Rā's al Ghūl sends his regards, Batman."

The bats metamorphosed into winged demons, scratching and clawing as Bruce dove for cover. Small arms fire from the gangsters impacted against his Nyctoprene body armor. Bruce, now a bag of broken bones, descended into the sewers, his mind no longer his own. Everything down here looked darker and meaner. Rā's al Ghūl had once again set up a scarecrow and he had walked right into it like an amateur.

As he wallowed in his own self-pity, a creature with fangs approached Batman. The hallucinogen's symptoms ceased. The bone breaks caused by the bullets vanished as if they never existed. Used to seeing familiar faces, he did not even flinch when he saw Waylon Jones in this sewer in this city. Coincidences defined his life. As Waylon screamed about his trespassing, Batman waved his hand in surrender.

"I don't want to fight you, Waylon."

The man with the skin disorder seemed shocked. "How do you know my name? My real name? Everyone calls me Killer Croc . . . whether I like or not." Waylon Jones looked angry. He must've lived like this for years. He had not thought of himself as a human being for a long time. Bruce never thought of him as anything else.

Without mincing words, he pulled off his mask. "Bruce?" He looked supremely confused. "When did this happen?" Of all those who might understand him, Waylon Jones might. He always listened to Bruce Smith.

Bruce began. "Bad people treated good people like you because they don't understand. Now, a really bad person wants to hurt the good people of Gotham. I know the man. Millions of good people will die."

Waylon growled. "Don't patronize me, Bruce. I get the concept. I have only one question. Why should I trust you?" The question struck Bruce like a knife in his side. Trust issues had plagued his life from the start. He didn't trust people. How could such a man convince such an untrusting person to change his mind?

An answer popped into Bruce's head. "Because you owe me one." Waylon smiled a toothy smile. He didn't think Bruce had remembered those days. Deep in the muck of the sewers, the Killer Croc had taken over.

Batman could always go home and resume his life as Bruce Wayne. Waylon Jones had transformed into his own urban legend. He didn't fit the bill as well as he wanted others to believe. Bruce could relate to that.

Now, Killer Croc had fled, leaving only an old friend and an old promise. Bruce smiled. Waylon asked Bruce what he could do for him. Bruce pulled the mask over his face. He could feel another attack coming on as Waylon Jones turned once again into a twelve-feet-tall man-beast. "Get me to a hospital. I don't have much time left." Batman lost consciousness as Waylon Jones, the Gator Boy, hoisted him onto his back.


	12. Part 12

Disclaimer: I do not own DC Comics or its characters.

Caped Crusader  
Dream of Immortality

Bruce Wayne had given up finding answers to the questions of life. He didn't know why evil existed. He didn't know if God existed. He didn't know what would happen the day he got ushered off this mortal coil.

The fact of his parents' murders confirmed the basics. Evil did exist whether God existed to tolerate it or not. No matter what afterlife they left Earth for, it did not change the simple truth. Their absence left a vacuum in Bruce Wayne's life. He had never managed to fill it even with Batman.

Imagine his surprise when he saw them again. In the last twenty years, Bruce Wayne had developed the mind of a scientist. He knew that he lied on a hospital bed, enduring a classic near-death experience. He knew that misfiring neurons created their presence. None of that could change the impact of the encounter.

So many questions flooded through his head. One question rose above the crowd. His parents answered. "What parents would not want a superhero for a son? You make us very proud. You have our permission to continue your crusade." They paused a moment. "But you don't have our permission to die. Not yet."

In a flood of celestial light, Bruce returned to Earth. No one had removed his mask. He could hear Waylon Jones. He threatened to gnaw on the bones of anyone who peeked under his mask. No one doubted him, not for a moment.

The doctors though had removed his costume. They had no choice. These people had failed to save his parents. He had always imagined gross incompetence as the culprit. He had thought better of them now. After applying every kind of drug detox known to man, the doctors had literally brought him back from the dead.

As soon as the doctors returned his Batsuit, Batman prepared for a trademark escape. At that moment, James Gordon came into the room. He looked like a man possessed. "Stay put. I have questions for you."

Batman narrowed his eyes. "I have no answers." Batman stopped. He had turned Waylon Jones into an ally and he lived in a sewer for four years. Batman handed Jim a communicator from his utility belt. "We'll keep in touch." Batman smiled. After he left, Jim would try to have that device tracked down to its manufacturer or its homing beacon. _Happy hunting._

A moment of distraction allowed Batman his exit. He wanted it this way, to keep people guessing. It kept his enemies on the defensive. Batman made sure that Waylon received shelter from the Wayne Foundation. Rā's al Ghūl had plans from this city. Centuries of solitude had turned the man into cruelty incarnate.

Batman located his Batmobile near the docks. Fortunately, the mafia had not found it. Good thing too. Bruce did not know if a modified sports car could hold up to that kind of punishment. He had only one Batmobile. He would have to consider setting up a spare car in case of emergency.

Bruce Wayne toiled in the Batcave, working on newer and bigger stuff. Alfred Pennyworth attended to the trick-or-treaters upstairs. If he planned to go toe-to-toe with that man and God knew how many others, he needed a plan. His adversary would receive the welcome he deserved.

When he looked up from his work, a six-year-old boy waited at the stairs leading into the Batcave. He looked vaguely familiar. A woman he watched die caressed the strange boy. Talia smiled that warm loving smile. "Say hello to your father, Damian." An invariable death squad surrounded Bruce. "He doesn't have long to live."

Bruce smiled. "Like Hell, I don't." He strapped on a gas mask. Alfred Pennyworth had the Batcave rigged with vents set to go off in the event of unauthorized entry, a contingency Bruce had not adequately prepared for. Knockout gas rose into the air. Bruce walked over and around the bodies. "You underestimated your enemy. I _almost_ made the same mistake."

As a message to Rā's al Ghūl, he left his assassins scattered throughout Gotham. If he wanted a war, he would have one. He looked down at Talia and his alleged son. Bruce Wayne had dismissed the League of Shadows' prayers as cowardly and superstitious based on a dream of immortality no different from the one espoused by countless faiths. It never occurred to him that Lazarus Pits truly possessed the ability to raise the dead.

Rā's al Ghūl must have extended his lifespan through these supernatural means. His inexplicable skills came not from a lifetime of experience but from several lifetimes of experience. A detective of Batman's caliber should have deduced all this. Bruce though knew very well how traumatic memories could interfere with rational thought.

Talia's betrayal as part of an elaborate scheme only twisted the blade in his heart. Too many good people Bruce had known came back from death fully consumed by darkness. He feared the same may have happened to him as well.

Jim called Bruce on his communicator. He had a case that sounded like his area of expertise. A woman dressed as a cat had ripped off many known Carmine Falcone assets across town. "I'll look it into it."


	13. Part 13

Disclaimer: I do not own DC Comics or its characters.

Caped Crusader  
All Hallows

November 1. All Hallows Day. Like any good predator, Batman knew the moves his prey would take to evade him. He used that knowledge to his advantage. This new player in Gotham, this Catwoman, had not sided with either the mob or the League of Shadows. She worked on her own.

Rats deserting a sinking ship could not fully describe what had happened in Gotham. The botched arms deal had finally triggered the long-awaited war between the Falcones and Maronis. The weapons brought on a ship from Kasnia fanned the flames of their mutual hatred.

The mob-controlled police felt the worst of it. Already Commissioner Gillian B. Loeb contemplated his plans in a Gotham without the mob. Rā's al Ghūl had dismantled the mob but most likely for his own warped reasons. Rā's al Ghūl, like Batman, had a crusade of his own.

"Hello there, stud." A whip shot out at Batman's face. Unmoved, he grabbed it and pulled it out of her hand. That really put her over the edge. The two exchanged blows. She had decent training, probably from one of the many back-alley dojos in Gotham. When Batman asked about the burglaries, she hissed and scratched at him. "Trust me. Carmine Falcone owes me this money."

Catwoman delivered a roundhouse kick to his throat. For a moment, Batman had trouble breathing. "You're good," Batman confessed as she walked into his snare. "But not that good." As she hung upside from the monofilament cable, Batman smiled. "Steal in my town again and I'll tell everyone your secret . . . Selina."

With that, Batman departed. Batman drove home to Wayne Manor. There in the front lawn waited Rā's al Ghūl and the entire League of Shadows, all wearing gas masks just as he said. Rā's al Ghūl made the terms simple. Defeat him in a sword duel and he'd leave Gotham without a fight. Lose and he would kill Alfred.

Before the fight began, Bruce Wayne took off his mask and asked the crucial question. "Why? You live for seven centuries and you'll know why. You'll know the disgust of watching history repeat itself. You already know the desire to make the world a better place." Rā's al Ghūl patted his grandson Damian on the head. "Join us, Detective, and we can rule Gotham together as a family."

Bruce shook his head in disappointment. "I don't want to rule anything. I just want you and your thugs out of my town." With that, the sword fight started. Rā's al Ghūl moved into striking range. Within minutes, he had disarmed Bruce, never realizing that he had allowed him the easy victory. Bruce launched a batarang into his left eye.

Jack, back at the circus, let him read the Anarchist Cookbook once. It had a lot of helpful hints. Though Bruce hated guns and killing, loading himself down with homemade explosives to stop an immortal madman from plunging his city into a dark age fell comfortably into his gray zone. The scarecrow had released his hallucinogen this morning in a subway station on Washington Boulevard. Many died.

Bruce donned his mask again. Bruce could tell he had broken the fighting spirit of the immortal Rā's al Ghūl, the Demon's Head. "If I ever see you in Gotham again, you'll lose more than an eye." Rā's gave the signal. Bruce had broken the rules of the contest. Quite simply, Bruce had gotten himself disqualified. His butler would have to die.

At that moment, Lady Shiva looked ready to break Alfred's neck. On cue with his daring performance, Bruce showed them the self-destruct mechanism of his utility belt. He considered using a mock-up but he could not run the risk of the assassins knowing the difference. "As you know, I could not live with myself if I killed anyone. Having said that, I have no qualms about killing myself and taking you all with me."

The League of Shadows had no choice but to accept their defeat. Even the Lazarus Pits could not save them if Bruce Wayne pushed that button. As they carried their fallen leader away, Bruce pulled Talia aside. "Take care of Damian, Talia. Don't let him turn out like his grandfather." Bruce paused. "Or his father."

Batman visited Arkham Asylum. Harleen Quinzel, a resident intern, unlocked all the cells in the maximum security wing. In the ensuing mayhem, Victor Fries escaped. Batman still hadn't tracked down the scarecrow, wanted by Homeland Security for domestic terrorism. There, amidst the sounds of madmen, feelings of recognition came over him like brief glimpses of the future intruding on the present.

All Hallows' Day ended at midnight with Bruce Wayne visiting the graves of his parents for the first time. As he left roses on their tombstones, Bruce looked to see something unusual. He saw his bat symbol in the last place he would have looked, in the skies high above the city. James Gordon promised to set up an alternate means of communication as soon as he made Captain.

Rā's al Ghūl had left Gotham in shambles. His attempt to make history nearly destroyed a city. Gotham needed the Caped Crusader. With gang wars tearing the streets apart, the city needed a savior. And the good people of Gotham would have one for as long as Bruce Wayne drew breath.

**The End**


End file.
